


Twice

by Arowen12



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BAMF Arwen Undómiel, Frodo is Tired, Gen, M/M, Post-Hobbit, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, They're all POC, Time Travel, Time Travelling Frodo Baggins, and queer, but like established relationship, it just takes them a while to meet up again, mix of movies and books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: Frodo never sees the Undying Lands.One moment amidst the sound of the waves and the far-off cries of the gulls, the smell of salt upon the air, and Bilbo muttering softly to himself, Frodo closes his eyes. Upon the next moment, when he wakes it is to the sound of his uncle calling out, “Come on Frodo up dear boy, I had no idea young Hobbits were so inclined to waste the day away laying in bed.”
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, I am here with my first LOTR fic. I've always wanted to write one, but I've always loved the originals so much that I never really felt inspired and didn't want to contemplate how that would affect everything; some of that definitely appears in this fic. Also, this is a mix of book canon and movie canon, I tried to work out the timeline as best as I was able. Anyway read on and enjoy!

Frodo never sees the Undying Lands.

One moment amidst the sound of the waves and the far-off cries of the gulls, the smell of salt upon the air, and Bilbo muttering softly to himself, Frodo closes his eyes. Upon the next moment, when he wakes it is to the sound of his uncle calling out, “Come on Frodo up dear boy, I had no idea young Hobbits were so inclined to waste the day away laying in bed.”

Frodo shifts slowly expecting a familiar pain in his shoulder which isn’t quite present as he blinks faint sunlight out of his eyes and peers at the door.

Bilbo stands there, but it is not the Bilbo Frodo is familiar with. Or rather, that is to say, the Bilbo in front of him was one he had not seen for many years. This Bilbo was young, without the lines of age or grey hair that had marked the loss of the ring, or indeed any sign of age at all.

Bilbo stares at Frodo for a long moment as if expecting a reply but all Frodo can muster in his confusion is a tentative, “Uncle?”

His face softens then erasing yet more of the lines of face and Bilbo tilts his head before gently asking, “Have you been having those dreams again Frodo?”

Dreams?

Once he dreamt of his parent’s accident, the water claiming them both, and he alone. But that mustn’t be what he is speaking of, Frodo has not dreamed of that in many years. These days, all Frodo dreams of is that nothingness, that seemingly never-ending darkness, and the Ring.

“Where are we?” Frodo asks, shifting upwards as best as he is able, though the blankets tangle around his legs trapping him along with the sudden panic in his chest.

Bilbo frowns concern stealing across his face as he steps further into Frodo’s room and says, “The Shire. Are you feeling quite alright, my boy?”

It is at those words that Frodo finally observes his surroundings, he is not in their room on the ship, which while small was quite comfortable, nor is he in the halls of Rivendell, or indeed even in Bag End’s master bedroom which he finally claimed a few years after Bilbo left.

No, this is his childhood bedroom, the one he was given after Bilbo took him from Brandywine Halls. There on the shelf is the acorns he collected along with the pond stones which when polished seemed to sparkle. There are drawings tacked onto his walls that he half remembers as if from a dream, and a ribbon from one lass or another that he was infatuated with in his youth on the bedside dresser.

The bed dips as Bilbo settles near Frodo reaching out to rest the back of his hand against Frodo’s head he mutters, “Not too warm, eat anything strange lately lad?”

“I- no,” Frodo responds unable to tear his gaze from his uncle’s young face, he clears his throat and continues, “I’m just tired, I spent too long out last night I think.”

“Perhaps, you’d better come home earlier then,” Bilbo says with a chuckle that banishes some of the concern if not all of it before he continues, “I remember when I was your age, never left the smial much myself. But well, to each their own. There’s some food in the pantry if you’re hungry Frodo, I’ll be in my study.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo responds and Bilbo nods with smile ruffling Frodo’s unruly hair before rising to his feet and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

For a long moment, Frodo does not move, unable to tear himself from the safety of this bed and the familiar scent it holds, something that reminds him of summer, however faintly, unable to face what he will surely see if he is to step out that door.

Eventually, Frodo musters what courage he has and swings his leg over the bed, it feels as if he truly has spent too long out at the local pub for his head is swimming and his body aches as he walks slowly to the small polished mirror.

The face that greets him is not so different from his own.

Or rather it is his own, but not one he has known for many years. Frodo’s fingers trail over his cheek, there are no lines of stress and hardship pressed into the corners of his eyes, the exhaustion that had crowded beneath his eyes is gone, and his hair curls down nearly to his shoulders.

He remembers this face, how could he not after the rather horrendous dare with Merry? They had both worn their hair cropped so close to their skulls and sworn never to do so again, which had led to the length it was now.

That had been… some odd thirty, forty years ago? Before he had reached his maturity when he was still quite prone to bouts of foolishness; he is still a fool.

If that is the face he sees and the face that Bilbo, who showed no confusion, wears then…

Frodo is not sure if he can consider the answer, though the truth of it lingers in his thoughts. If he is truly in the body of his youth, then everything, the quest, their struggles, have been erased as drawings in the sand before the tide.

He stumbles back from the mirror and collapses into a chair that was once familiar covering his face with his hands.

Frodo can see no reason for this. Why would the Valar send him to his youth with these memories? Is it similar to the Dwarven tales of Durin the Deathless that Gimli spoke of only once? Or the Elvish lord who once was slain defeating a Balrog? Some strange form of punishment for what he can not yet divine?

He supposes it is a mercy that he never saw the Undying Lands.

Or perhaps these are the Undying Lands?

Yet, where are the others? The scars of his life have been wiped clean all too suddenly for Frodo to be certain of it.

There must be a reason. Whether malicious or benign Frodo knows not, the question is what to do with the time he has been suddenly given. If, this is indeed his world now.

Is he to live out the rest of his life, following each step as one who has read the same book many times? Is he supposed to change the course of events, to ease the suffering of those which could have been prevented?

If he tampers with events, the ending which was, by all means, good, one where Aragorn was crowned, where the Shire was saved, could be erased and replaced with something worse. The happiness of his friends gained through their trials, their growth and strength, would be lost, but so too would their suffering be erased.

Frodo cannot see the path he is supposed to take, this is not the lost path to Mordor, this is not even a path. He has stumbled into the wild and without map or torch to guide the way.

The Ring is here.

The thought trickles slowly into his mind as honey trickles from a bottle. It appears at first a sweet thought but is quickly undercut with something acidic, like the bitter waters of the marshes.

A part of him, one that sounds in his own mind like Gollum seems to whisper _mine._

The rest of him is horrified, the part of him that sees, as if from afar, all that the Ring did, the way it influenced him, guided his actions, and attempted to strip away all that he was.

The Ring is whole and Sauron will not rest until it is destroyed.

Is he to shy from this burden? Shove it onto someone else’s shoulders, who would take it? Sam, who should never have to bear that burden, one of the members of the Fellowship?

Frodo needs advice. He can’t do this alone; he’s never been able to before and he doesn’t see how this would change anything.

Gandalf.

He’ll need to find Gandalf. As one of the Istari in his many long years of life he may have heard of something similar, and if not, then at least Frodo can trust the Gandalf will have an idea on how to proceed.

His path somewhat chosen, Frodo slumps back in the chair. There is a window to the left of him which lets in slants of soft yellow sunlight and beyond it, he can see the verdant green hills of the Shire rolling on seemingly endless.

The sight eases something in his chest, a reminder perhaps that the Shire will always be the Shire.

Gandalf does not visit the Shire often. Indeed, from what Frodo recalls, Gandalf does not visit for another five or so years, passing by with a few dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

Five years is too long to wait, in that time, Sauron will amass more power.

If Frodo can destroy the Ring now, before the Nine walk the Earth, before Saruman and the might of Isengard are turned against Rohan before Boromir and Faramir will dream of the Ring.

At what cost though?

He exhales roughly scrubbing a hand over his face he sets his shoulders, Elrond will likely know where Gandalf is, the halls of Rivendell will provide a temporary safe haven in the meantime.

Having a plan, a destination in mind helps to ease some of the panic that arises every time Frodo considers what is before him. If he does not think of it, focuses only on Rivendell and Gandalf, he can banish it, if only temporarily.

Rising to his feet, Frodo steps out of his childhood bedroom with one last glance over his shoulder.

He can hear Bilbo humming to himself in the kitchen along with the rhythmic sound of cooking, no doubt a full Hobbit spread. Frodo’s stomach turns at the thought and he steadies himself on the door for a long moment, unable to tear himself from the moment.

Finally, he turns down the hallway to Bilbo’s study, the door is open a crack and Frodo can see his Uncle’s book open with a sketch of a map on one page, Bilbo’s overcoat hangs on the back of the chair, and a fire crackles in the corner.

Frodo steps quietly inside, pacing towards Bilbo’s desk, he begins to hear the whisper of the Ring once more. The Ring whispers like a voice long forgotten, it is sweet like Elvish singing and warms the blood like hot cocoa.

His fingers dip into the pocket of Bilbo’s overcoat and wrap slowly around the smooth metal of the Ring. A sense of _right_ washes suddenly over Frodo, it is at the same time completely _wrong_.

Withdrawing his hand, Frodo shakes his head and locates a small square of fabric which he carefully wraps the Ring in before tucking it into his pocket. He can still hear its whispering, but here it is muffled.

Glancing around Bilbo’s study, Frodo pauses suddenly aware once more of his uncle in the kitchen. He cannot leave without a word, not after all Bilbo has done for him. There are a few loose sheets of paper and after a moment’s indecision, Frodo scrawls a quick note. Before he can contemplate it heavily, he scrawls one for Sam and one for Merry and Pippin.

He wants to see them again, they would be so young. Sam would hardly even know him, it would not be Frodo's Sam. 

He does not know if he will return to the Shire in this lifetime and so he leaves the letters.

Frodo’s eyes cast once more around the room and pause on Bilbo’s chest, the one which he knows contains Bilbo’s Mithril shirt and Sting. Frodo pauses considering it for a moment, Sting had travelled with him to Mordor, it had served him well, but it is not his; not in this life.

He turns and leaves Bilbo’s study.

Bilbo is still in the kitchen and Frodo cannot resist and calls out, “I’m heading out uncle.”

“Have fun, my boy, don’t stay out too late!” Bilbo calls back with a chuckle and a lingering touch of concern. Frodo muffles a smile into his chest and pauses in the doorway to Bag End staring at the path which stretches down through the garden and beyond.

He’ll have to find a horse if he hopes to outrun any search parties. Frodo’s never been a fan of horses, but well necessity had created an appreciation for the creatures and their speed.

Bag End’s round green door shuts silently behind Frodo as he steps forward, humming softly under his breath, the weight of the Ring in his pocket. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! The second chapter is finally here, I promise I didn't abandon this fic, it was sitting at the back of my mind, I just had a few other things to finish first. But we are and I'll try to update more often than every 6 months. In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, notes on the timeline will be at the end of the chapter.

It’s a good day for a walk, maybe even for an adventure, the sky is the sort of endless blue and the clouds are white and puffy forming whimsical shapes. Frodo passes through Hobbiton and nods with a pleasant smile to the local hobbits, for a moment, he basks in the normalcy of it all, he is simply out for a walk, the Shire is untouched, and all that happened never occurred; except to him. He stops at the local grocer and buys supplies, saying something about ingredients for dinner even as his hand lingers over his chest.

He won’t be home in time for supper, he doubts he will return home at all this time and he knows that should be a sad thought, that he won’t see the Shire again, that he won’t become such close friends with Merry and Pippin, and Sam. But then, they won’t experience war, they won’t be haunted. And he won’t have to return to the Shire and pretend that everything is alright, that he’s fine.

Frodo continues through Hobbiton, the pack on his shoulders is a familiar weight, comfortable, and as he leaves Hobbiton behind to strike towards Bree, he pauses on the threshold and glances back. He sees the rolling fields of the Shire, the hobbits bustling about, fauntlings chasing after each other and he tries to remember this, plant the image in his mind like a sapling.

He continues onwards in silence, the sound of his feet and that of the world around him keeping time, faint snatches of old songs sing in his head and as he glances at the sun’s position in the sky, he thinks suddenly of how much he already misses Sam. Sam who filled the time with gossip he heard in the Shire, things his dad would say about growing this and that plant, the right seasoning for a good meal.

It’s just quiet.

The Nine Riders have not woken, there is no true haste and it all feels as listless as Frodo himself. He’s tempted to stop, turn around and go home before they all notice his absence. To tuck himself into bed, feel Bilbo run his hands through his hair and console him, he wants to laugh with Merry and Pippin, listen to Sam talk as he tends the gardens with his father.

But he can’t go home, it doesn’t matter that Gandalf or Bilbo didn’t hand him this burden in this life, or that there are others who could do this, Frodo must have been given this knowledge for a reason. And, for his family, because of them, he cannot sit there and watch as the clock ticks closer to the war which will take so much from them. Not when Frodo can prevent it all now.

He passes the Barrow Mounds and thinks of Tom Bombadil, he never saw him again and wonders how or even if the war impacted him.

He arrives at Bree late in the evening and avoids the Prancing Pony, finding a smaller inn. The inn-keep glances down at him with a charmed smile when he gives her the name Underhill and shows him to a small room with a fire already crackling in the grate. He thanks her and inquires about where he might find a pony. He stays for a moment in that small room, inhaling and exhaling trying to calm the way his heart is racing, thudding too loud in his ears, and everything feels too much all at once and he can’t move, much less think.

Then, he goes down for supper, a thick stew with carrots and chunks of beef. The noise in the bar is rowdy but not overly loud tonight and Frodo finds a small corner where he can watch the room. There are no rangers in shady corners tonight and a few of the men sing cheery songs about lost loves and silver spoons.

In the morning, Frodo wakes early and secures a pony by the name of Mabel, she has a beautiful coat, a chestnut, and she brushes her head against his hand. He pays the man with the coin he’s brought, what little he thought to bring and maybe he is his uncle’s nephew after all; running out with barely a plan or supplies.

They set out from Bree after a short breakfast of eggs and toast, the innkeeper packs him lunch when he admits he hadn’t planned that far and then he is on his way. He’s forgotten how much time travelling takes, from one location to the next, there’s just Frodo, Mabel, and the rest of the world passing by.

He speaks to her softly, asks about her opinion on the weather as she continues at a canter over the roads and again, he is struck by how different everything is. There’s no need to cross the Brandywine, nor to avoid the roads, it’s strange without Strider guiding them. He thoughts keep circling around how different it all is and it’s better than thinking about where he is going, what he must do once more.

He passes Weathertop from a distance but even that cannot stop his shoulder from twinging in remembered pain. It’s an icy sort of pain, the kind chilled right to his bones and he buries his face in Mabel’s mane to muffle the way his breathing goes ragged and his hands go white around the reins. He thinks of Sam, of the Shire, the tea in the pantry and the pastries sold in the Sunday markets until he can breathe again.

Night seems to fall suddenly, painting the sky in shades of grey-blue and at the horizon orange-grey, he glances at his surroundings, the remnants of a foundation in the distance and smiles softly to himself. He turns Mabel off the path and they pick through the foliage, new trees growing tender around them before a clearing opens onto the three stone trolls from Bilbo’s tales.

In that first life, the Nazgul’s blade had already pierced his shoulder and he had been feverish. Now he starts a fire and stares up at the garish faces, the limbs frozen and yet almost daring to move any second. Mabel stays close munching on the grass and silently laughing as Frodo struggles to start a fire; it takes him five tries but he does it.

The fire sends strange shadows skating over the trolls and Frodo watches them dance for a moment before he digs through his supplies and eats the lunch the inn-keep packed. He tries not to think about what will happen when he reaches Rivendell, but amidst the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of nocturnal animals creeping through the forest, his thoughts begin to stray.

If Gandalf is not there then what? He’s never been the easiest person to find, it is usually rather that Gandalf finds you. He will have to tell Elrond about the Ring, regardless of anything else. He cannot simply leave the Ring there and return, nor can he leave for Mordor on his own, he only survived because of Sam, regardless of Sauron’s forces. Elrond might offer the service of the Elves and Frodo should be happy enough with that, shouldn’t he? It’s not wrong that he wants the company of the fellowship, he knows this, and yet he also knows it is not remotely possible. Legolas was only there because Gollum escaped (and that is a problem that will have to be dealt with), Boromir and Faramir have not yet dreamed of the ring, and Aragorn is likely off somewhere in the wilderness.

Frodo startles as in the distance a branch _cracks_ , Mable whinnies tossing her head back and Frodo’s hand drifts towards the dagger, more of a short sword (not Sting and he regrets not bringing it with him now), he had picked up in Hobbiton. It is likely just one of the creatures of the forest, the orcs have not yet grown so bold as to come this close to Bree, he hopes, and if not an animal then someone passing through the road.

He sits in silence, his breath held tight against his chest and his hand in a white-knuckled grip around the guard when a voice speaks, “And what is a Hobbit doing so far out this way alone?”

“Visiting relatives, do you often accost strangers from the shadows?” Frodo responds glaring in the direction of the voice and focusing on each inhale and exhale. He has to wonder if the Ring is already trying to escape his grasp, he can hear it distantly, a siren song that sings of emptiness like a gift.

The stranger laughs, the voice is young and rough, a man steps out of the trees. A ranger, he’s cloaked in dark greys and greens and holds his hands up in front of his chest. In the light of the fire, Frodo can see only the edge of his jaw and a flash of his eyes as he says, “You can put down your blade, I mean you no harm, on my honour.”

Frodo scrutinizes him a moment longer before with a hesitant nod he sheaths the blade at his side. The man nods and steps into the light, he makes a short sound with his mouth and from the shadows a horse appears, a dark brown coat, which regards Mabel intently; Mabel stares back just as intently.

“Do you mind if I join your fire?” The ranger asks and really Frodo should say no and send him on his way but he is Baggins and he was raised with manners.

“Of course, though I’m afraid I don’t have much food to offer you,” Frodo says and digs through his pack handing the ranger a piece of bread, cheese, and salted pork. The ranger inclines his head, the light of the fire flickers across dark skin, a few shades darker than Frodo’s, and dark eyes as he mumbles a thanks.

For a moment there is quiet but for the crackle of the fire as the Ranger eats quickly, but then through a mouthful of food, the ranger says, “Thank you. I’m Wingfoot, may I ask where you are travelling to?”

Frodo has a moment of panic to come up with a first name before he replies, “Sam – Sam Underhill. I’m passing through Rivendell and then hopefully on to Dale, my cousins' trade pipeweed there.”

The ranger – Wingfoot, nods the motion oddly familiar as he says, “I’m also passing through Rivendell, though there our paths diverge as I hope to pass through Lothlórien,” he pauses for a moment his dark eyes studying Frodo across the fire before tentatively he offers, “We could journey to Rivendell together? Company is always better for travelling and these roads can be dangerous.”

The man is almost rambling and Frodo grins to himself and it would be nice to have company, though a part of him is suspicious that they’re paths have crossed so coincidentally. In any case, he responds, “I’d like that."

Wingfoot practically beams the white of his teeth catching the light of the fire. There is silence between the two of them again and Frodo contemplates the ranger in front of him, the hood still hangs over his face so Frodo can make little of his features and he feels oddly exposed in return. The ranger must notice his staring because with a shrug he flips back his hood.

His face is familiar, dark eyes, a strong jaw, his hair is thick and hangs in dreads around his head, and there is a dimple in his cheek when he inclines his head. Wingfoot reminds Frodo of Aragorn, perhaps a distant relation?

He tilts his head and asks, “Are you from Hobbiton?”

“Closer to Buckland,” Frodo admits and in some ways it is true.

Wingfoot nods and Frodo thinks that may be all the conversation for tonight as he stretches out his bedroll and Wingfoot does the same, perhaps he is expecting Frodo to continue the question and ask about the man’s family and what he seeks in Lothlórien but the thought of asking sits heavy on his tongue.

The stars are visible above the tree line forming constellations he remembers Bilbo pointing out as they sat in the field with cups of tea clenched between their hands. Suddenly, he is crying, the tears burn as he thinks of his uncle, his family, what he must do, it all seems to settle on him like the avalanches of the Misty Mountains.

Wingfoot shifts and his voice drifts over the fire, “Are you… uh okay?” Frodo nods wills himself to stop crying but it's not quite working, Wingfoot continues, “Would like to talk about?”

The ranger _sounds_ awkward. Frodo sniffs for a moment and hates these tears, the way they clog up his throat and burn all the way down like the sulphurous air of Mordor. He’s not sure why he’s opening his heart and his mouth up to this stranger but he says, “I have to do something again and I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to do it, everyone is counting on me, I can’t fail.”

“Is it hard?”

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Frodo replies and maybe that’s not quite the truth, because leaving Sam, leaving Middle Earth behind as much as it was necessary, as much as he couldn’t live anymore, it was still hard.

“You’ve done it once already I have faith you can do it again,” Wingfoot says and though he’s a stranger the words are reassuring, maybe because they are strangers.

Frodo shakes his head, “I had help then.”

“And you don’t now?” Frodo shakes his head glancing pointedly around him, Wingfoot shakes his head and continues, “You’re a good person Sam, even if you didn’t start out with help, I’m sure you’ll find some along the way.”

“Thanks,” Frodo says, the tears have stopped and he’s stuck on the way Wingfoot said Sam’s name.

They turn in for the night, the fire crooning them to sleep and though it’s been a while since Frodo has slept in the wilderness, no sticks bother his spine nor does the sounds of the forest and he falls asleep between one breath and the next.

The morning light dapples across the clearing and when Frodo wakes, a nightmare lingering beneath the surface nameless and empty, he peers across the clearing to see Wingfoot. The ranger is already up and is carefully tending to his horse, in the light of day Frodo can see his face better and the smile he tosses his way as he holds out a hunk of bread and some cheese.

Frodo smiles tentatively back and takes the bread rising to his feet and securing Mabel’s feed bag. They set out a short while later, the sun just beginning to crown the horizon, shining golden over the craggy bluffs which make up the valley.

“You know the way to Rivendell?” Wingfoot asks, his horse, Fell, keeps pace easily with Mabel.

Frodo nods glancing at the sky, in the west the clouds are grey and overcast threatening rain, he replies, “I’ve been there a few times.”

“A well-travelled Hobbit,” Wingfoot says and his voice is almost enquiring for all that the words are stated casually.

“There are a few of us, surely you’ve heard of the Tooks,” Frodo responds running one hand through Mabel’s mane.

“You’re an Underhill though.”

“Well, it’s not just Tooks of course,” Frodo responds with a teasing smile before he continues, “You seem to be quite familiar with Hobbits.”

Wingfoot shrugs, “I’ve known a few, though I don’t often meet them far from the Shire,” he pauses for a moment gazing out across the valley with narrow eyes, “I was in Hobbiton yesterday and there’s been quite the stir.”

“Oh?” Frodo responds pleasantly, one hand hovers unconsciously over his chest, where the Ring wrapped in thick cloth rests in his breast pocket.

“There’s been gossip that the Bilbo Baggins’ nephew has run away, I heard such variations as with a girl, with the mysterious treasure won on his adventure, and to visit the elves,” Wingfoot says, his voice casually light.

Frodo hums, “That’s interesting I heard he was a perfectly respectable gentle-hobbit so I quite doubt he ran off with a girl,” he pauses for a moment as if considering the gossip, glancing at their surroundings, they are still heading in the direction of Rivendell, he continues, “As to whether he’s stolen anything I suppose you’d have to ask Bilbo Baggins, and whether he’s off to visit the elves I couldn’t say. But,” he winks, “young hobbits have a habit of getting into mischief. Why my sister’s daughter, who’s a few years younger than me recently was caught in a hayloft with a Proudfoot.”

Wingfoot smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling before he frowns studying Frodo for a long moment, “I think that the gossip is probably very far from the truth.”

“It usually is,” Frodo says over the tightness in his chest, he wonders at his chances of escape, Mabel isn’t fast enough to outrun Fell, he could use the Ring but… he doesn’t want to do that, not unless it’s a last resort.

Wingfoot must see something in his face because he smiles gently, “I won’t say anything like you said, you have something important you have to do.”

“Thank you,” Frodo says quietly and then, “Frodo, Frodo Baggins’ that’s my name.”

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Wingfoot – Aragorn replies and Frodo strives to keep the shock off his face as he stares at his friend. How could he not have recognised him? True, the grey threaded through his hair is gone, as are much of the lines of age, and he looks young, he still almost has baby-fat clinging to his cheeks. And maybe, it was because he was expecting the face of Elessar king but even now the face he sees is strange to him.

Still, the clues were there if he had only paid attention to them! That smile, the one that crooks only one side of his face, the way he talks to his horse, the gentleness to his voice. It is so strange to see him as a ranger, not Strider yet, younger and without the looming weight of the war and his bloodline. Frodo suddenly feels tired, angry at himself, desperate to say something to Aragorn and unable to.

In the end he doesn’t have to say anything.

They stop another night in a copse of trees at the side of the road and though it is a warm enough spring, they light another fire. They don’t speak much to each other, but when Frodo asks, Aragorn speaks carefully of what had brought him to the borders of the Shire, a band of orcs had been sighted; they had been summarily dealt with.

The words, everything that has happened, sit heavy in the pit of his stomach, and he can blame it on the thought of orcs so near the Shire, but suddenly he thinks that maybe it’s a good thing that the others aren’t here with him. To be around them and see who they could be, he would never stop comparing them to what they are. All these memories and emotions tied to a person who doesn’t exist yet.

Frodo dreams of that darkness, a dark so empty it could hardly be called dark, it seems like a veil over his eyes, a living death, and all that was good caught in its net. He dreams of Shelob, of Gollum, the phantom pains of a missing finger, the thunder of the Nine’s hooves chasing behind him.

He wakes to a grey overcast sky and drizzling rain which leaves Aragorn scowling at the ground as they feed the horses and shrug on their cloaks. The one he has is old and weathered hardly comparable to those of Lothlórien but it keeps the rain out of their faces as they ride.

Mabel and Fell pick their way through the rest of the valley and slowly down the steep cliffs which border Rivendell, the distant sound of water, beyond that of the rain, seems to fill the air with a roar. They don’t speak and stop briefly for a short lunch where Frodo tries to ring out his cloak as best as possible, Aragorn just laughs at him.

They arrive at Rivendell towards the evening, the sky grey but the horizon a burnt orange that reminds Frodo of the fallen leaves right before the snow falls. It is quiet and a few elves come out to greet them, two, twins, pull Aragorn off his horse with a laugh, ruffling his hair and teasing him by saying how tall he’s gotten and how long his ears are, maybe one day he’ll be a proper elf.

Frodo dismounts and glances up at Rivendell, something in his chest easing even though he feels like a wet cat and the Ring is a heavy weight against his chest. He exhales and let’s one of the twins pull him inside and out of the rain, catching sight of Aragorn shaking his head. It’ll be okay, he has help now he just has to ask.

Samwise Gamgee wakes slowly, there is sunlight warm on his face and in the background, he can hear the sound of his ma and da talking to each other. It’s a dream he hasn’t had in a while, he can smell bacon cooking in the pan, his mother frying hash browns and laughing.

He knows this dream, in it he gets out of bed, he puts on his clothes and his dad shows him the different plants in Mr. Bilbo’s garden and maybe Frodo will be out, alive, whole, smiling as he reads in the sun or chases Merry and Pippin. But this is a dream, so Sam basks in the sunlight for a moment longer.

He opens his eyes and expects to see Bag End, maybe Rosy is up, or she’s beside him still asleep because the children haven’t yet woken her and he’ll turn and see her hair, mussed with sleep, and it won’t quite fill the hole because she’s something else entirely but it’ll make him smile and that’ll be enough for the day to go on.

Except, he doesn’t see that, when he opens his eyes that is. The room _is_ his old room, with the small bed that creaks and groans, the little stuffed pony his mother made him when he was a fauntling still on his shelf, the one that was lost somewhere between leaving and the desolation of the Shire.

There’s a knock on the door and his ma pokes her head in, she’s young, younger than he remembers seeing her in a while, there are only a few lines of grey threaded through her hair and her posture isn’t stooped. She raises a brow and with a fond smile asks, “Planning on lazing about in bed all day, are we?”

The response trips out of his mouth unbidden, “No ma.”

She laughs and turns closing the door behind her. Sam rises slowly, expecting the ache of old injuries and bones, but there is nothing, it’s almost too easy. He shuffles over and automatically begins pulling on his clothes and even this is different, the fabrics he wore as master of Bag End were more finely woven, the buttons engraved.

He sits at the table and stares at his father, who passed some years ago now, his hair has colour in it and Sam can hardly remember a time where it wasn’t all white. If this is a dream, it feels far too real. Sam has had vivid dreams, but none like this. Still, he takes what he can, staring at them and wondering if Frodo is here in this dream that doesn’t feel like one.

His mother and father talk but Sam sits there and listens unable to do much else as his mind tries to puzzle over this. He’s heard of strange magics but he’s never been as well-read as Frodo and has no idea if there’s a precedent for this sort of thing.

Ma puts the bacon and an egg on his plate and settles across from him with a raised brow, “Alright Sam?”

“Strange dream,” Sam says and stares at his plate, forces himself to eat. He does so slowly, tasting the food, and he can feel his parents watching him but he can’t quite force himself to gobble food down as he did when he was younger.

After a moment his da says, “You helping me in the garden today Sam?”

“Yeah – yes da,” Sam responds and for a moment his fingers itch, because gardening has always made sense where things often didn’t. Gardening was logical, it has rules the same as most other things, but the rules were easy enough to follow.

Whatever this is, it isn’t logical.

They finish their food and Sam tucks his mother into a hug, breathes in the scent of her, the herbs they keep in the kitchen and the laundry soap. He does the same for his da, who pauses in surprise before he pulls Sam into a hug.

They exit their home and Sam breathes in the fresh air and glances around, he blinks because there down the hill, he can see a hobbit hole he remembers with a certainty which caught on fire a few years before they left the Shire.

He blinks, takes a moment, and keeps moving, following his da to the garden. In some ways, he wants this to be a dream because as much as he wishes things could be different, he’s made a life for himself, picked up the pieces and kept going, he has a wife and children, responsibilities. On the other hand, whatever this strange magic is he wants it to be real, because if it is, then Frodo is _here_ , without the weight of the Ring, without everything that happened to them.

The Ring. If this is all real then that means that everything that happened, the war, the Ring being destroyed, all of it never happened. It almost makes him want to cry, there was so much bad, but there was so much good. He’s not sure if he would trade all of it to have Frodo back.

They start to work in the garden and for an hour Sam turns it over in his brain, considering possibilities, considering his options. If it is all real, which he still has no guarantee about (he’s not sure how you’re supposed to test these things), then he could stay in the Shire, wait for events to play out how they did originally and what? Take the Ring instead? Try to save Frodo?

Or he could try and take the Ring alone, now, prevent all that war, all that suffering. And it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t come back if he was famous or whatever because it would mean that Frodo would never have to carry that burden.

The door to Bag End swings open and Mr. Bilbo steps outside, he has a pipe in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. He stares out past the hill for a long moment before he notices Sam and his da and says, “Good morning, have you two seen Frodo?”

“Can’t say I have,” Sam’s da responds glancing at Sam who shakes his head. He’s not sure what he would have done if he had seen Frodo.

Mr. Bilbo nods with a frown, “He’s disappeared on me, I thought he would at least stay for breakfast. And I can’t find my blasted Ring, I – oh yes, he was in my study I found letters!” here he pauses glancing at the one in his hand, his expression lost, “I suppose I should read it, perhaps he’s just gone out to tea. There’s one here for you Samwise.”

Something is sinking in Sam’s chest and it’s heavy like a stone as he reaches out and takes the letter, flicking it open, he sees Frodo’s graceful but a bit rushed handwriting and reads:

_Dear Sam,_

_I have so much I want to say to you and not enough time, nor is it the right time. I wonder if there will ever be a right time for it? If I return... that will be the time. I doubt, however, that I will return. I’m sorry this must be terribly confusing for you. I’m going away and I don’t think I will be coming back again. I’m sorry, please take care of Bilbo, and Merry and Pippin when they inevitably come demanding answers. I wish I could give them to you, all of you. Is it strange to say I will miss you?_

_Yours with love,_

_Frodo Baggins_

Sam closes the letter and can feel tears begin to pool in his eyes. He swallows and wipes away at them with the back of his hand and glances down at the letter again. He had wondered if the others remember, and maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but Frodo _does_.

Bilbo stumbles and Sam’s da catches him easing him onto the bench at the front of Bag End. Sam stands there feeling stunned because Frodo has left without him, to destroy the Ring and he _knows_ he’s not coming back but he still left anyway. He didn’t even say goodbye.

His da is comforting Bilbo, “I’m sure we’ll find him, he’s a smart lad but he’s still a lad.”

“I just don’t understand it all,” Bilbo says slowly, the letter crinkled in his hands which are beginning to shake, Sam feels as if his whole body is shaking. Bilbo glances over at Sam and asks, “What did he say to you, Sam?”

He inhales tries to put it all aside for a moment as he responds, “He said he was sorry and that he uh – doesn’t think he’s coming back.”

And Sam isn’t going to stay in the Shire and wait for Frodo not to come back. He’s never abandoned Frodo and he’s not going to start now. He thinks about supplies he’ll need to pack; Frodo’s already got a good head start but Sam knows he’ll likely be heading to Rivendell and he knows his end destination.

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo says again shaking his head and suddenly he looks as old as the last time Sam saw him, “I thought it was just a Ring and where would he have learned all of this?”

From a life they never lived.

“Good morning – what is all the fuss about?” A voice asks coming up the path, Sam turns and for a moment relief floods like a waterfall across his shoulders when he sees Gandalf, his grey pointy hat and robes, his eyes surveying the scene from beneath his bushy brows.

Sam responds, “Mr. Frodo has run away.”

“Hmmm?” Gandalf responds raising one bushy brow and extending a hand, Sam passes him his and Bilbo’s letter and they stand in silence as he reads them. He doesn’t remember the wizard showing up around whatever date they are in (sometime roughly seventy years ago for him he reckons).

“Strange, very strange indeed,” Gandalf says glancing up from the letters, there is no recognition in his eyes, and then to Bilbo, “Do you know where he could have learned about the Ring?”

“If I could I would tell you this instant Gandalf!” Bilbo responds wringing his hands together and slumping back into the bench before he adds, “Frodo was acting strange this morning, I thought it was just a bad dream.”

“But you think it could be something else,” Gandalf says with a nod.

Sam itches to say something but waits, holding his tongue, as his da says, “Well why don’t we all go inside for a cup of tea, collect our thoughts and go from there?”

“A wise idea Mr. Gamgee,” Bilbo says and rises shakily to his feet, Sam’s da goes to support him.

Sam sees his chance and steps closer to Gandalf, who glances down at him, Sam, who still has a healthy fear of Gandalf but knows the wizard might know what to do whispers, “I think I might know what’s happening,” he glances to his father and Mr. Bilbo, “But…”

Gandalf follows his gaze and settles a hand on his shoulder with a nod, “We will discuss this later, for now, let’s go comfort, Bilbo.”

Sam nods inhaling and exhaling, he thinks of Frodo travelling alone and promises that he will be there at Frodo’s side, sooner rather than later. Then, he follows the others inside Bag End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, I've also updated the tags so keep an eye out for those in the future. Regarding the timeline, the story takes place roughly 30-40 years before the start of the Fellowship of the Ring. Which puts Frodo at around twenty (book time) and Aragorn somewhere in his fifties. I reason that if the Dunedain age slower he probably looks like he's in his twenties or even a teenager as he looks middle-aged at 87 (his age as stated in the movies I think?) Anyways, comments are always super appreciated and help fuel the next chapter. Until then!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I am back with another chapter! Originally I was going to try to get this out a week ago, but I'll be honest, the pandemic's really getting to me and I just haven't had the motivation lately. But I'll hopefully have the next chapter out sometime within the next two weeks. I've also finally figured out the timeline, it takes place roughly 35 years before canon which starts at around 3018 according to the timeline I found, leaving this taking place 2983, some of the things had to be adjusted, but I'll let y'all know when that happens. Anyway, read on and enjoy!

They get Bilbo settled at the table in the kitchen, Sam tries not to glance too obviously at Gandalf as he reaches up to where he knows the tea is kept (but it’s not where he kept it which is the weird part) and his da sits beside Bilbo trying to comfort him. Sam puts the kettle on and listens as Gandalf says, “We will find Frodo of this I have no doubt.”

He sounds sure but when Sam glances over at him he can see that Gandalf is disturbed by this change of events. Sam is still feeling disturbed, he feels like he’s been run over by one of those oliphants that they saw because Frodo remembers and Frodo is gone. All his hopes that Frodo might never have to deal with the burden of the Ring are gone and he’s left with the truth that Frodo is out there _again_ , carrying the ring.

Sam would have done it for him, without being asked and he can’t help it, but a part of him feels angry, or maybe just frustrated at himself. If Frodo had talked to him in person before he left Sam could have gone with him! But how was Frodo to know?

Still, Sam’s been left behind again. But he has a chance to catch up, Frodo can’t have gotten that far.

The kettle boils and Sam pours the tea making a cup for his da, one for Bilbo as Frodo said he likes it, and one for Gandalf. Bilbo gives a watery nod of thanks and Gandalf catches his eye with a wink as he says, “Might I speak to young Sam for a moment? You saw Frodo yesterday did you not Sam?”

“I did,” Sam says though he remembers no such thing, he’s not even quite certain of the exact date as of yet.

Sam’s da nods and Bilbo glances up with a frown but nods before glancing down into his tea, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Sam feels for Bilbo he really does, he couldn’t imagine how he would feel if one of his wee ones ran off, and Frodo would only be somewhere in his twenties physically right now, hardly old enough for any adventuring.

Gandalf rises carefully to his feet attempting to avoid hitting his head off the chandelier again and with a nod beckons Sam to follow him. They enter the hallway and then slip into Bilbo’s study, the door creaking shut behind them.

For a moment, there is silence the pleasant afternoon sunlight pours in through the windows and casts everything in a golden light. Gandalf stands, his arms crossed over his chest and with a raised brow says, “Well Samwise speak what is it you think is happening that you couldn’t reveal in front of your father and Bilbo?”

Sam shifts for a moment feeling like a fauntling being told off, he inhales and centres himself reminding himself that this is for Frodo before he speaks, “You see the thing is Mr. Gandalf that Frodo has the Ring and that this has all happened before in a manner of speaking.”

He pauses and glances at Gandalf whose brow is furrowed in confusion and a wordless demand for Sam to explain himself.

So, he tries, “About maybe thirty-five years from now as I reckon it, Bilbo leaves Frodo his ring, but it turns out to be the Ring. You only find out later and come and tell Frodo and I was there for most of it and I couldn’t leave Frodo alone. So, we leave but the Nine are after us and I’ll try to make this as short as possible I will, Frodo gets injured but we make it to Rivendell. There’s a council to decide what to do with the Ring, a Fellowship is assembled we travel through Moria which ends… badly then the Fellowship splits and there’s a whole bunch of other things that happen but Frodo and I travel to Mordor to destroy the Ring, which we do, and then we return home and,” He pauses for a moment thinks of the Grey Haven, of Frodo’s face, a strange mixture of relief and sadness and longing, he continues, “Frodo leaves and I stay in the Shire. Then I close my eyes one night for bed…”

“And you woke up in the past,” Gandalf concludes glancing at the chair behind him like he wants to collapse back into it, instead he strokes his beard, his brows almost touching as he says, “I must say I have heard of things similar in nature, but nothing like this before. You believe Frodo also remembers?”

Sam nods, “Yes, he wouldn’t have taken the Ring otherwise. I – I think he’s going to try and destroy it again.”

“A dangerous task,” Gandalf says turning away from Sam.

All Sam can do is nod because he’s trying not to think about how they barely survived the first time when it was the two of them, and Frodo couldn’t destroy the Ring and Sam doesn’t blame him, can’t blame him because he got the Ring all the way there and it all worked out in the end. He’s not sure if Frodo can do it a second time, it doesn’t matter if Sam can or can’t because he doesn’t have the Ring and he didn’t carry it the first time anyways.

Gandalf hums for a moment turning a half-circle before he places his attention on Sam once more and asks, “Do you know where Frodo is going?”

“He’ll go to Rivendell first,” Sam says thinking over it for a moment, he pauses and says, “I don’t know if he’ll go through Rohan because it’s… safer now or if he’ll take the Anduin River near to Minas Tirith.”

“You’re going to go after him,” Gandalf says and it’s not a question, Sam nods, Gandalf turns pacing in half circles again before he says aloud, “Be careful what you say Samwise, what you and Frodo know has the potential to cause great harm or great benefit. I suspect I cannot dissuade you from attempting to destroy the Ring now, even though perhaps it is for the best.”

“All respect sir, if it had been just me, I would have done the same,” Same responds thinking over his words for a moment before he continues, “There was a lot of good that came out of what we did, but if we can stop a lot of the bad now it might be worth it because there’ll be none of that good but there’ll be good for certain and the bad won’t ever be so bad.”

Gandalf smiles, the expression familiar, warm in a way Gandalf the White never quite seemed to reclaim and nods, “Well then, I suppose we shall just have to play with the cards we have been dealt and see if we can catch up with Frodo.”

“You’re coming with?” Sam asks and it makes sense but well one never presumes the actions of a wizard.

He nods still smiling, “Of course, I think it best not to leave you two unaccompanied.”

“Well, I appreciate the help that’s for sure,” Sam responds and Gandalf nods the conversation finished and steps out of the study.

Sam follows Gandalf into the kitchen where Bilbo is still hunched over the table, Frodo’s letter clenched in one hand and the other wrapped around his mug of tea, Sam’s da is still sitting beside Bilbo, one hand resting comfortingly on his shoulder. They both look up when Gandalf enters, Sam’s da raises a brow in his direction but before he can ask Sam Gandalf states, “Young Samwise and I are going to go after Frodo and see if we can retrace his steps.”

“I’ll come as well!” Bilbo protests already rising to his feet, he continues on, “I’m not just going to sit in my comfortable little Hobbit hole while my nephew is out there. It doesn’t matter what I have to face.”

“And that’s precisely why we need you here Bilbo,” Gandalf interrupts gently glancing at Bilbo with a kind expression, “If Frodo decides that he’s done with adventuring he will return here, he needs someone waiting at home for him.”

Bilbo’s face scrunches up and he looks like he’s gearing up for an argument, Sam remembers those arguments they were legendary when he abruptly settles down scrubbing one hand over his face, “Perhaps – perhaps you are right. You’ll find him Gandalf?”

“If it is within my power, I promise I will return Frodo to you,” Gandalf says and the words seem to resonate in the kitchen, something more than just words. Bilbo nods all the tension seeping from his body as he glances down at the letter, Gandalf turns to Sam’s da, “Do I have your permission Mr. Gamgee for Sam to accompany me?”

Sam’s da glances from Sam to Gandalf, his expression crinkled up with worry and concern but also maybe with a touch of understanding. His da never had the same relationship with Mr. Bilbo, but they still understood each other well. He nods once and then holds up a finger and says, “You bring my boy back, you hear wizard?”

Gandalf nods once solemnly and Sam’s da nods.

They leave the kitchen and Gandalf sends Sam to pack what he wishes and to say goodbye to his ma. He packs better now, knowing what exactly they’re going into and for how long (he knows it might be years before he sees home again). He pauses glancing around his room, how important it all seemed when he was younger, the worries about the future, about Rosie, about his ma and da. He grabs a small box wooden box and shoves it into his pack before he presses a kiss to his ma’s cheek and steps outside.

He pauses by the garden and scoops a little bit of dirt into the soil so that this time he can carry some of the Shire with him, bring it into the adventure instead of the adventure back into the Shire. Gandalf is waiting at the bottom of the hill with a large horse, not Shadowfax, but a grey mare who studies Sam with curious eyes.

Sam glances at the horse biting his lip and says, “Suppose I have to ride then.”

Gandalf huffs, barely a breath of laughter and asks, “Not a fan of riding Samwise?”

“I much prefer a pony,” Sam admits as Gandalf with a raised brow and receiving a nod swings Sam up onto the saddle. Gravity reasserts itself suddenly and Sam has a moment to be thankful that they won’t be riding Shadowfax as Gandalf settles behind him.

The wizard says, “This will be much faster, and at the moment, speed is key.”

With that, the horse began to trot down the path and once they are out of Hobbiton proper, ignoring the stares they receive, the horse (Pansy, Sam will later learn) is spurred into a gallop.

They pause after midday, the sun is already beginning to slip towards the horizon, for a late lunch. Sam munches on a sandwich as Pansy grazes and Gandalf asks, “Will Frodo stop in Bree?”

“I don’t know, things didn’t go well there last time,” Sam admits it, considering for a minute before he nods decisively, “I think he will.”

“Then we will spend the night there and continue on in the morning. Perhaps if we are lucky Frodo will be there or we will at least hear rumour of him,” Gandalf responds around his pipe.

They continue on and Sam, not fearing for his life or the approach the riders, takes the time to appreciate the scenery. After Frodo left, he often took long walks, sometimes Merry or Pippin, if they were in Hobbiton, would accompany him. It was a way to get away from it all for a moment, a breath.

They arrive in Bree late, night a dark cloak which settles in the alleyways and upon their eyes. They stop at the Prancing Pony, which is already bright with noise and laughter spilling out onto the street. Sam shakes his muscles out until he doesn’t feel quite as stiff and follows Gandalf inside.

He’s talking to the barkeep, Tom, and Sam catches the end of their conversation, “Just one more thing. Have you seen any Hobbit not from Bree tonight?”

Tom’s brow furrows and the man, much younger than Sam half remembers, strokes his jaw, “Can’t say I have, but feel free to ask around.”

Gandalf nods his thanks and beckons Sam to follow him, he does, glancing at the inn and wondering if there’s a ranger lurking in the corner; he doesn’t see any. It’s loud and the air is warm as they settle at a table and a barmaid brings over steaming bowls of stew and thick cuts of bread warmed by the fire with slabs of butter.

They eat in silence and Sam itches to fill it before deciding that a bar is probably not the best place to speak of such matters. They retreat to the room Gandalf bought for the night, which has two beds, both large by Sam’s standards.

Gandalf goes and leans against the window pulling out his pipe he asks, “Is there anything you feel you must tell me about the future you lived?”

Sam settles on the bed placing his pack on the ground as he considers it for a moment before he says, “The wizard Saruman, he was working for Sauron.”

Gandalf almost drops his pipe before he catches it, his brow furrows heavily his eyes dark beneath them as he turns to face Sam, “You’re certain?”

He nods, “Yes, Isengard became a focal point of the war, he created an army to attack Rohan. I think – well Frodo says he sought the power of the Ring for himself.”

The wizard’s face falls and he turns away from Sam to face the window, “This is dark news indeed, but it may not yet have come to pass and we must have hope that it never will. Is there anything else?”

Sam considers it for a long moment, Gollum is likely still a captive of the elves which means he won’t be a problem, there’s the whole matter of Aragorn but Sam isn’t sure how much Gandalf plans to meddle in affairs. In the end, he shrugs, “If it comes to mind, I’ll let you know.”

Gandalf nods a pensive expression on his face before he studies Sam with a small smile, “I suggest you turn in Sam; we have a long day ahead of us I suspect.”

Sam tries his best to sleep, but the bed is stiff and not the bed in Bag End nor his own, and the streets creak with noise outside the window, and his thoughts turn circles around each other. Gandalf starts snoring at one point as Sam stares at the ceiling and thinks of Frodo, wonders where he’s sleeping tonight, how he’s feeling. He’s been missing Frodo for so long he should be used to it and yet now that he finally is within reach, Sam can’t see him.

In between one breath and the next, he finally falls asleep, though it hardly feels like he’s slept all night. The mid-morning sun shines through the window and Gandalf peaks in through the doorway and says, “Ah you’re up, I thought I’d let you sleep, who knows what effects your journey may have had on your body,” he pauses a pensive expression, “At a later point I hope to look through the archives, perhaps it will provide some insight, though I suspect this might be the will of the Valar.”

Sam rises to his feet and rinses before following Gandalf downstairs. The inn is quieter in the morning, the sunlight slants through the windows and a barmaid sets two bowls of steaming porridge before them. Sam wishes for some cinnamon or maybe some apple slices but doesn’t complain as he eats.

Gandalf eats slowly a contemplative expression as he asks, “Is there anywhere else you suspect Frodo would stop?”

“We’ve already past the Barrow Mounds and I doubt he’d stop there same with Weathertop. He might stop to see the trolls from Bilbo’s story, I suppose?” Sam responds scooping up the last of his porridge.

Tom comes over before Gandalf can respond and settles at the table, “You were asking about a Hobbit?” he glances at Sam, “Other than your companion that is.” Gandalf nods and the innkeeper smiles, “Well word is last night one Hobbit passed through, heading towards Hobbiton or that direction.”

Sam feels hope swell and fall as quick as a rushing river in his chest and he glances at the whorls of the wood of the table in an attempt to hide the expression. Gandalf hums nodding once slowly and asks, “No other Hobbits?”

“Not that I’ve heard, but I can keep you posted if you’re staying another night?”

“I’m afraid we can’t stay, somewhere to be,” Gandalf pauses and Sam has to wonder if Frodo even stopped at Bree, if he even made it to Bree, Gandalf continues, “But if a Hobbit does pass through here of the description I gave, please let him know Gandalf is looking for him.”

Tom glances over the two of them but nods and says, “Will do. Will you two be needing anything else?”

Gandalf requests a few provisions, which Tom’s wife brings out to them as Pansy is saddled. Sam thanks her and only frowns a little bit as he’s lifted onto the horse, this body is not used to riding a horse and his muscles are complaining about that fact.

They ride at a slower pace than yesterday but still the landscape seems to become a blur softened by the edges of the sky. Sam has a moment to wonder how he used to fill so much time, did they really spend months travelling? He supposes that saying about time dulling things or however it goes really is true.

They pause for lunch in a copse of trees and in the distance, Sam can see Weathertop and it sits on his chest dark and heavy like an overcast sky. Gandalf notices his gaze and asks gently, “Bad memories?”

“Frodo was wounded by one of the Nine there,” Sam admits glancing down at the bread and salted pork to distract from the memories. Everything, all of his collective past, suddenly feels present in a way it hasn’t been for years (he buried it because it was easier than facing the pain that the memories brought).

Gandalf’s face twists for a moment, sorrow and surprise mixing together as he says, “I’m surprised he survived.”

“It was only thanks to Elrond and the elves,” Sam responds, thinks of Frodo deathly pale, skin feverish and almost grey at the same time.

They continue on and night falls quickly blanketing the rolling hills in a carpet of darkness. They stop in a small sheltered clearing a short way away from the road, Sam starts the fire and it’s familiar and easy.

They settle on either side with the sounds of the forest growing into a cacophony around them. Gandalf pulls out his pipe and Sam contents himself with laying on his back and staring up at the star-speckled sky.

He thinks suddenly that he could have stayed home, could have lived a normal life, maybe he could have married Rosie again, waiting for Gandalf to return with Frodo. But for all his flaws he could never abandon Frodo, the same couldn’t necessarily be said vice versa. It’s harsh, he knows it is. He only carried the Ring for a short time, but the darkness and weight of it was like an anchor sinking into the depths of the seas.

If they return, when they return, he’s not going to let Frodo slip away again so easily. He knows they won’t be able to go back to normal, or at least not the normal of their past selves, but after the war, they all did it eventually. He has to hope it might be the same.

There’s the sound of rustling, louder than before, and the _crack_ of a branch. Sam stiffens up and sees Gandalf doing the same reaching for Orcrist. Sam wishes then he had one of the Barrow daggers, instead he has the old hunting knife that was his grandfather’s and that will have to be enough.

They rise to their feet and wait in silence; Sam’s breath is tight in his chest and he inhales wishing for Sting to let them know if it’s orcs or just the local nightlife. There are the sounds of more shuffling and then Sam hears, “Must be around here somewhere I can see the light, probably some farmers or merchants.”

Another gruff and raspy voice, “Haven’t had man flesh in weeks what with all those rangers patrolling.”

Sam glances at Gandalf and mouths “Orcs” and Gandalf nods once in understanding. There’s silence for a single second before the orcs burst into the clearing, there’s four of them and then they’re attacking.

He ducks under a swing of a club and his skills are a bit rusty but the adrenaline is pumping through his veins as he sinks his knife in the orc’s guts and steps away. Gandalf has already cleaved the head off of two orcs and the last one is charging at Sam; he blocks the blade with his knife and Gandalf stabs the orc from behind.

They stand there, Sam panting, orc blood dripping off his knife, for a moment before Gandalf exhales long and slow, “I think that’s enough excitement for one night, don’t you?”

Sam nods and as they dispose of the bodies hopes that Frodo is faring better than they are.

They continue the next morning after a heartening breakfast of bread and cheese. They stop for lunch at the trolls from Bilbo’s story and even seeing them again, after all, they’ve seen, they’re still a mix of terrifying and amazing.

There are also the remains of a campfire under the arm of one of the trolls and horse tracks. Gandalf studies them beside Sam, munching on a heel of bread, Sam asks, “Do you think it could be Frodo?”

“I think there are no coincidences,” Gandalf replies as they finish their meal quickly and continue on.

They stop another night on the side of the road, this time thankfully without the interruption of orcs or any other creature of the night. They continue on the next day in silence and Sam can feel them drawing closer, it feels like there’s a piece of rope between him and Frodo going from taut to loose as they get closer.

In the afternoon, the clouds which had loomed ominously over the sky all day, break open thundering down onto their heads. Sam pulls his hood over his head and tries to peer through the rain but sees only grey.

They could have pushed on and perhaps reached Rivendell that evening, but they stop under the shade of trees, the rain threatening to continue at a pace, as Gandalf, water dripping from his beard and the rim of his hat admits, “I have been to Rivendell many times, but picking our way through the valley in this rain will only lead to trouble.”

Sam nods as much as he wants to continue on, be there now, the path to Rivendell can be treacherous at times, without Aragorn, who knew the way there like the back of his hand, they never would have gotten there as quick as they did.

The rain peters off sometime during the night but the sky the next morning still threatens to rain, grey and overcast, with dawn touching the east skies with the faintest hint of oranges and pinks. They continue on, Pansy picks her way carefully through the valley the pace slower than Sam would like and his heart feels like its bursting in his chest when he thinks of Frodo, of seeing him again.

But for all that he might wish to go fast he forces himself to be patient and contents himself with wondering what the other members of the Fellowship are doing right now, Boromir is probably only a young man right now, and Gimli would likely still be an apprentice.

It is still late afternoon when they arrive at Rivendell. Elrond himself comes out to greet them, his gaze passes over Gandalf and lands on Sam and the regret which washes over Elrond’s face tells him all he needs to know; Frodo’s already left.

A few elves take the horses, and the twins, Elrond’s sons Elrohir and Elladan, lead Aragorn and Frodo into Rivendell and through the wide arching hallways onto a terrace. The falls sing in the background as Elrond rises from the table, he inclines his head to Frodo and then sweeps Aragorn into a hug. The man doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace, wrapping his arms around the elf.

After a moment, Elrond pulls back, a murmured word of elvish barely discernable shared between the two, and turns to face Frodo, “Greetings, I am Elrond and welcome to Rivendell.”

Frodo bows and responds, “Frodo Baggins, Bilbo’s nephew.”

Elrond’s face changes slightly, like a light summer breeze, his expression warmer as he beckons them to join the table. Already, the twins have seated themselves along with a few other elves.

The meal is light, salads of rich leafy greens hiding tomatoes and strawberries under a vinaigrette, fish flaky and succulent, juice of the fruit trees grown in the gardens. For a moment, there is silence, the sort of silence filled by eating before Elrond sets down his utensils and says, “Tell me, has Bilbo sent you in search of something Frodo?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Frodo responds hesitating only a moment before he continues, “I need to speak to Gandalf and he has not passed through the Shire in a few years.”

“It has been many months since last we saw Gandalf here,” Elrond’s tone is apologetic and Frodo tries not to show how the words sink the fragile line of hope he had been holding onto. If Gandalf has not been through Rivendell recently, then, Frodo cannot spend his time chasing after the wizard, he knows what he must do, no matter how terrified he is.

He cannot think about how he barely did it the first time and how he’s supposed to do it alone a second time. He wants to ask Aragorn to come so that he might have someone, but he cannot ask that of him.

He inclines his head unsure how to respond and Elrond doesn’t pursue the line of questioning and instead asks, “How is Bilbo?”

“He is well,” Frodo responds swallowing and scrambling for faint memories before he continues, “The Hobbiton gardening contest was this year and it was quite the debacle of course.”

One of the elves murmurs, “Gardening contest?” under their breath. Aragorn smiles into his salad and Elrond must catch sight of it because he asks, “Aragorn, how have your travels been?”

Aragorn’s face twists and it reminds Frodo of a parent interrogating their child as he scrubs a hand through his hair and says, “They’ve been… well good.”

Elrohir leans close, butting his shoulder against Aragorn’s he laughs and asks, “I could have sworn last I heard you were still fighting with the Rohirrim and yet today you’ve come from the West.”

He pauses for a moment his expression troubled, “There have been rumours of orc attacks as far as the Shire lately.”

“That is troubling news indeed,” Elladan replies, raising a brow before his lips quirk into a grin, “And are you heading back to Rohan now?”

“Don’t you know? He’s off to visit Lothlorien again,” Elrohir teases. Frodo grins into his juice at Aragorn’s put out look, he missed this side of his friend, without the weight of his destiny or the crown upon his head.

Elrond smiles, amused, and says, “I doubt you’ll need to visit Lothlorien Aragorn.”

As if a summoning, from the hallway Arwen approaches, she is as beautiful as Frodo remembers upon first seeing her, dark tresses, a sharp defined nose, and her skin a few shades darker than Frodo’s in the fading light. She smiles, the expression slipping wider at Aragorn’s flabbergasted expression.

She settles at the table across from Aragorn and with a shake of her head says, “Don’t look so surprised.”

Aragorn shuts his mouth and looks as if he’s searching for an adequate response, but can’t quite find one. The rest of the dinner passes in a comfortable atmosphere, it reminds him of blurry memories of his mother and father, and later of dinner with Sam, Rosie, and their children.

After they are shown to their rooms and Frodo takes a moment to wash the road’s dust from himself before he leaves to wander. He has half an idea to perhaps search through the library for _something_ though he doubts he will find anything tonight, and he cannot stay long.

He wanders past tapestries, some which are unfamiliar, and others which have not moved once in the many times Frodo has visited Rivendell. His feet lead him unconsciously to one of the small terrace gardens, which looks out as night begins to creep towards the horizon, casting the falls into sparkling hues.

On a stone bench sits Elrond, he is still, almost as much as the bench beneath him, and his expression is calm as he turns to Frodo with a raised brow. Frodo hesitates for a moment before he steps forward settling at the other end of the bench.

Silence hovers between the two of them and it is not quite comfortable but Frodo is in a way loath to break it, eventually though he says, “I have been to Rivendell before.”

Elrond turns slightly his expression changing as he says, “I do not remember meeting you.”

“It was almost thirty or so years in the future from now,” Frodo pauses for a moment, swallows his hand hovering over his shoulder where the wound was and still troubles him now, continues, “The Nine had risen and I had been stabbed by one of their blades, you healed me.”

Elrond is silent in the wake of that statement for a long moment, interspersed only by the slowly growing chorus of the nightlife, at length he responds, “The Nine, they would not have visited the Shire without reason.”

“No,” Frodo’s hand dips beneath his shirt and he pulls out the Ring, ensconced in a thick bundle of fabric, as if that might help, slowly he unwraps it and holds it aloft in the dying light, “I intend to take it to Mordor, to be destroyed.”

“Again?”

Frodo nods. Elrond frowns expression pensive, “And you know of no reason for this?” Frodo shakes his head, “Hence why you sought Gandalf I suppose. I cannot recall anything of exact similarity to this, Glorfindel did not relive his past, nor from what I understand did Durin. Then I suppose the better question is, how can I help you on your journey?”

Frodo considers the question carefully, thinks of the quest previously before he responds, “I’ll need provisions, I was hoping to pass through the path of Caradhras, then through Rohan and Minas Tirith.”

“You know the way?”

“Yes,” Frodo says, doesn’t think he could forget the way, it’s ingrained into the very soles of his feet.

Elrond nods staring out into the valley which has darkened with night’s touch, “What supplies you need you shall have, and if there is anything else you need only ask. You will go alone?”

Frodo nods and thinks of the Fellowship, even broken before the quest entered Mordor, they were a source of light, of fondness, and companionship. Most of all he misses Sam; he doesn’t know how he’s going to do it without him, doesn’t want to, but he’ll have to.

He stands and with a bow leaves Elrond. He passes through Rivendell’s halls, catching distantly the sight of Aragorn and Arwen in front of Isildur’s sword. Frodo turns and finds his way to his room where he settles to sleep, or at least attempts it; even in the light of Rivendell, the weight of the Ring is heavy.

He wakes with a silent scream trapped in his throat in the early hours before even dawn splashes rosy across the horizon. Stooped at though with age, though this body is young and without all the trappings of age, he rinses the empty nightmares from his face and departs his room.

In the early morning, sunlight stretches across the halls of Rivendell, slanting through the open air and bringing it with the lingering scent of rain. Frodo inhales, pausing to lean against one of the balconies looking out across the valley, the sun is just beginning to rise now and he basks in the warmth of the sun, letting it wash away the night’s terrors.

“Good morning master Hobbit,” a voice says and Frodo blinks and turns his head to see an elf, tall with long dark hair, and the figure of a warrior.

Frodo inclines his head with half a smile, “Good morning,” The elf leans against the balcony beside Frodo and it takes him a moment to place the elf in the lingering exhaustion of the night before he says, “You’re Glorfindel.”

“And you’re Frodo Baggins,” Glorfindel says with a smile and a nod, “Elrond mentioned you, and what you’ve experienced.”

Frodo nods his heart attempting to pick up in his chest as he asks, “Have you heard of anything like this before?”

Glorfindel frowns, “I can’t say I have, but that does not mean it hasn’t,” he pauses for a long moment staring out across the valley, “I suspect like my own rebirth it is an act of the Valar.”

He nods, they’re not supposed to question the actions of the Valar but he cannot see a reason for this, for all the things that happened it ended well, Sauron was defeated, Aragorn crowned, a new golden age. As his thoughts spiral, he notices one hand drifting to hover over the Ring before he catches himself, “Thank you.”

Glorfindel nods, the horns signalling breakfast begin to ring through the valley and the elf turns and bows once to Frodo, “Good luck on your quest Frodo Baggins,” then he is gone.

Frodo stands for a moment longer in the sunshine before an elf appears and leads him to a table where Elrond is seated, Arwen on his right with Aragorn beside her, and the twins on her left. They eat in silence, hot pancakes in golden syrup with berries, steaming bowls of porridge, fresh loaves, and freshly pressed juice.

Aragorn turns to face Frodo after a moment, studying him in the sunlight before he says, “You’re leaving, after this meal,” it is not a question, Frodo nods, and in a lower voice Aragorn continues, “Elrond told me of the burden you carry.”

Frodo frowns, it wasn’t necessarily Elrond’s burden to share, but at the same time, he can’t fault the elf. He nods instead and takes a poignant bite of his porridge and catches sight of Arwen carefully watching the conversation play out.

Aragorn’s face twists and he inhales, glancing around the table where everyone is pretending at ignoring their conversation, and continues, “If you’d have me, I would accompany you,” Frodo raises a brow in question and he continues, “It is a dangerous world you seek to traverse and the burden you carry cannot fall into the wrong hands. If you will have me, I’ll do what I can to protect you and aid you in your quest.”

Frodo considers it for a long moment, he can’t allow something to happen to the Ring, and what Aragorn says is true. Middle Earth, may not hold the dangers of the war, but there are still orcs; and the Ring will call to them. He would be lying if a selfish part of him didn’t say he wanted one of his original companions.

“Okay,” Frodo says expression serious; Aragorn nods a grim smile on his face.

“In that case, I’m sure you won’t deny yourself another companion?” Arwen says raising a brow.

Aragorn glances at her with a furrow between his brows and something vaguely apologetic as he says, “Arwen, you will not be able to enter Mordor with us.”

“It is still a long way from Rivendell to the gates of Mordor, Aragorn,” She replies and her voice is like steel, her gaze lands on Frodo and she raises a brow in question.

Again, he considers it, and perhaps a part of him wants to say no, to limit the possibility of their group breaking up. But Arwen was never tempted by the Ring, and Aragorn resisted that temptation, would have resisted it to the very end if given the chance. Frodo nods once and Arwen’s face breaks out into a triumphant smile, he can see Elrond frowning, resigned.

Aragorn sighs scrubbing a hand over his face as he rises to his feet with a shake of his head, “I’ll go prepare the horses, then won’t I?”

“That would be nice dear,” Arwen replies and Aragorn goes, she winks once at Frodo and he knows he’s made the right decision.

They depart a short while later, the sun just beginning to climb the sky. Elrond embraces his daughter and then Aragorn, sharing a few words of warning before they mount their horses and leave Rivendell behind them.

The horses pick their way out of the valley with familiar hooves, Mabel plods along behind the two horses as the sky still overcast, and in the distance storming, hovers over their heads. They make camp in the evening at the foot of the mountains, Arwen goes off into the short brush of trees and long grass while Aragorn starts the fire and Frodo tends to the horses.

Arwen returns with two rabbits and Aragorn goes about preparing them with the soft teasing of a couple who’ve known each other for years. Frodo watches with a tiny smile, enjoying the heat of the fire.

After dinner they settle around the fire in silence, the night howling in the distance. Arwen glances at Frodo from across the fire and asks, “So, Frodo, my father was vague and said only that you carried the Ring, seeking to destroy it, and that you were blessed by the Valar.”

“I don’t know if I would call it a blessing,” Frodo responds after a moment, glancing to Aragorn before his gaze falls on the fire, “Thirty or so years from now I left the Shire bearing the Ring with three companions, in the Prancing Pony, we stumbled upon a ranger, Strider, who helped us evade the Nine.”

He pauses and Arwen’s gaze falls on Aragorn whose brow is furrowed in realisation, he asks, “How is that possible?”

“If I knew I would tell you,” Frodo responds quietly, barely above a whisper before he continues, “War broke out across Middle Earth, Rohan, Minas Tirith, even the Shire was touched by it. But in the end, the Ring was destroyed.”

Arwen’s face unfolds with understanding, even here in the fire it looks ethereal, tears shining in her eyes, “You were the Ring bearer.”

Frodo nods and swallows uncomfortably around the weight in his chest which has climbed up and into his throat. Aragorn frowns, “Was there no one else who could take it now and then?

“A council was called of the many races of Middle Earth to decide what would be done with the Ring,” he pauses thinks about the growing sense of dread, the way his chest had felt like an oak barrel wrapped with iron, “No one else volunteered. And now, no one else knows the way like I do, knows what I know.”

“But we won?” Aragorn asks looking for something to cling to.

Frodo nods but Arwen must catch something on his face because she shakes her head, “But it was not a win for you.”

“I – I no,” He shakes his head, “I was going to depart Middle Earth, on the ships at the Grey Havens, I went to sleep and now am here.”

Aragorn frowns, looking so young then even though he must already be in his forties, “That’s hardly fair. You’re sure no others remember?”

“No, it doesn’t seem fair. As for the others, you don’t remember, I had hope Gandalf might but there is no use in testing that theory,” Frodo responds and then wishing to change the subject he asks, “What will you do after this?”

No one mentions the slim possibility of after.

Aragorn shrugs his face cast into shadows by the light of the fire, Arwen reaches out and takes his hand responding with a kind smile, “I suppose we shall have to see what the world makes of us. I suspect it will be very different from the life you’ve lived Frodo.”

“It already is,” he says softly and wishes for Sam to be at his side.

Aragorn rubs a thumb over Arwen’s hand before he glances up at Frodo and asks, “Were you planning on taking the path through Caradhras?”

He nods, “Yes and then through Rohan and on to Minas Tirith. We should hopefully have more luck than in my first life.”

Arwen nods, “Then we should all get some sleep we have a long day ahead of us.”

They turn into sleep, Arwen curled against Aragorn’s side, the star’s a blanket above them. Frodo stares up at them Sam’s soft voice in his ear telling tales of each constellation guides him to sleep.

They wake early to a cold breakfast of bread and cheese before mounting the horses as far as they might take them up the path before it becomes too narrow. At midday, they stop for a lunch of bread, cheese, and dried pork, Frodo savours it while he can, knowing that his diet will soon consist of lembas or the man’s equivalent he’s heard called tack.

They release the horses who will find their way back to Rivendell. Frodo takes a moment to dig his face into Mabel’s mane, stroking hands along her flank and he’s struck suddenly by how much he doesn’t want to part from the horse. It’s stupid, they did this with old Bill, and yet, he doesn’t want to leave her behind.

They continue on, the sun beginning to slant in the sky as the snow begins to pile up around their feet. Frodo ends up sandwiched between Aragorn, who carves a path through the thick snow, with Arwen behind him helping him as they stumble onwards.

The clouds when they come, do so with the creeping darkness of night and the sound of the mountain beginning to stir. In the past, Gandalf had said the storm was likely the actions of Saruman and said in a much quieter voice that it could have been the mountain itself; Frodo has to wonder as a great sheet of snow cascades down the mountain missing them by a hairsbreadth.

The next sheet goes with a great _crack_ and it’s only Arwen tugging Frodo out of the way that save him from being buried beneath Aragorn’s height in snow. Speaking of Aragorn, the ranger turns and over the blizzard which has picked up with unnatural speed yells, “Frodo what shall we do? Do we turn back?”

Frodo really wishes Gandalf was here right now, he always seemed to know what to do, or at least what the best course of action is. But Frodo already knows they will not be able to cross the path. He yells back, “We need to turn back, there’s another path!”

They struggle down the mountainside, it’s cold, the sort that seeps and burns but at least it’s something. By then night has fallen swift and heavy, Arwen starts a fire and they have a cold dinner before curling together to conserve heat.

In the early morning they depart crawling south along the base of the mountains. Before Frodo, the memory of the mountains blur into each other, but the map in their hands is familiar enough as he leads them up the mountain.

Frodo leads them the door to Moria where they pause brushing snow off their cloaks. Aragorn raises a brow, “You know what door this is Frodo?”

He nods, “This may be the only way through,” he pauses considering, “Has Balin’s expedition taken place yet?”

Aragorn shakes head his expression puzzled, “I have heard whispers of an expedition but nothing concrete,” he glances to Arwen and she shakes her head, staring at the door with a furrowed brow.

Frodo nods and steps forward speaking the word for friend and with a great creaking groan, the doors slide open. He glances over his shoulder at the waters which are still before he steps inside, Arwen and Aragorn at either side, their hands on their weapons.

There is a torch burning inside the hall and a dwarf, who stumbles to his feet in surprise one hand reaching out to seize his weapon as he demands, “Halt who goes there?”

Frodo steps forward and bows, “Frodo Baggins nephew of Bilbo Baggins at your service, with me my companions Aragorn son of Arathorn and Arwen daughter of Elrond at your service.”

The manners slip out instinctively even as he tries to comprehend this new information. This is a time before the Balrog was woken once more from its slumber before the orcs took over Moria once more.

The dwarf stares for a long moment before he bows, “Gili son of Nili at your service, come this way,” they follow him down the hallway the braziers burning not with pitch as in the men’s castles but something like coal as they are led deeper into the mountain, the dwarf confesses at one moment, “Don’t get many visitors, not after the first few.”

It is strange seeing Moria alight, the air is not quite so stale, there is warmth from the torches, and the stone is cast into something welcoming. They are brought before two large doors, half-familiar as Gili steps inside, his voice rings through the door announcing them before they are welcomed inside.

It is a sort of mess hall and throne room in one, with a long table at one end and Balin, an old dwarf with a long white beard, seated at the centre of the table. Frodo steps forward and bows, “Greeting Balin son of Fundin, friend of Bilbo Baggins, we come seeking passage through Moria.”

Balin studies him for a moment with a raised brow before rises to his feet and says heartily, “Any kin of Bilbo are welcome here, come join us for lunch and then we shall see about passage through the mountain.”

Seats are made at the table and Balin places Frodo near him with Ori a few seats away. A goblet of fine gold with jewels encrusted in the side is poured and placed before him as is a plate laden with meat and vegetables in thick sauces. Balin smiles warmly and asks, “How is Bilbo? Is he well?”

“He is well,” Frodo responds taking a sip of the ale before he continues, “He still lives at Bag End, where the Sackville Baggins are still attempting to take his silver spoons from him.”

Balin nods with a smile and Ori leans around him and asks, “Does he speak of us? Of the quest?”

Frodo pauses and thinks of Bilbo, who on cold days would disappear into his office with that old trunk of his, the songs he would hum late at night, he nods, “He told me stories of your quest often when I was a fauntling, and he speaks of you all and your letters with great joy. But it’s still difficult for him to talk about King Thorin and the princes.”

The old dwarf’s face twists with old grief, “Aye he took the loss of them hard, we all did. Some days I wonder how he went on, but our Bilbo is made of sterner stuff than that, like mithril he is!”

Ori laughs and Frodo smiles fondly before the scribe, setting his goblet down asks, “Where are you travelling to?”

“Minas Tirith, Aragorn worries that with the increased amount of orc attacks near the Shire it may be part of a larger problem. Have the orcs been troublesome here?” Frodo responds thinking quickly on his feet, Aragorn presses his arm against his in acknowledgement of the story they must now share.

Balin’s face darkens, “We’ve beaten them back for now but no doubt they’ll be back. Persistent pests they are.”

He has a chance to change this, he could say something, he doesn’t know what but he has to try, he leans closer to Balin and says, “There are rumours that the Balrog is not dead as you hoped.”

Balin raises a brow and Frodo in a minute of madness or genius says, “You know how Bilbo had a slight gift of prophecy?”

Ori, who had been listening in, nods, “Yes, he always knew what the weather would be before any of us did!”

That was more a hobbitish trick but no need to mention that, Frodo nods, “This stronghold will not last, Moria cannot be reclaimed while the balrog dwells in its depths.”

“You’re sure of this?” Balin asks.

Frodo’s mind flashes to the creature of smoke, ash, and fire, the sheer heat of its presence, the way the orcs fled at the sound of it’s coming. He can still feel the fear swelling up in his chest now and Balin must see some of it as Frodo nods, “It is only a matter of time. You’ve taken the stronghold and held it but please get your people out while you can.”

“That may be so laddie but we dwarves don’t back down from a fight, we all know what we were getting into when we made this voyage,” Frodo’s face falls and Balin pats him on the shoulder, “But cheer up we’ll take your advice into consideration. Besides even two years would make me happy. Now come finish your food and we’ll give you a quick tour so you can talk about the splendour of a reclaimed Moria before we send you on your way.”

He wants to say something else but knows it is futile, Bilbo had complained often enough about the stubbornness of dwarves for him to know that much. They finish their meal and Balin leads them through armouries, gardens which are grown in the warmth of lamps made with strange crystals, dwarves practicing battle, a library slowly being fit to order. They pause in the great hall and Frodo can see the sheer awe on Arwen and Aragorn’s faces and remembers feeling that the first time they saw it even with the slowly creeping dread.

They are led then towards a door at the other side of the mountain where a young dwarf is waiting with a chest. Balin smiles crinkling the laugh lines of his face as he opens the chest and holds out a mithril shirt for Frodo, “Think of it as a family tradition, please I’ll go happier knowing Bilbo’s nephew is safer.” Along with a blade roughly the length of Sting and of good balance.

He takes it and slips on beneath his waistcoat, a familiar weight. Balin offers Aragorn two hunting knives, finely carved to which Aragorn gives his thanks, Balin turns to Arwen and says, “I thought about pretty jewellery but I doubt you’d have any use of that on the road, and I doubt our bows would do you much good, instead take this,” he offers her a pair of finely woven hair clasps which she takes with a fond smile.

They part, food stocks replenished and step out of the gloom of Moria lit only temporarily. Frodo watches the door slide shut, Aragorn’s hand resting on his shoulder before they turn and begin the descent to steady ground, the sun mirroring their path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Some of you may have noticed that technically Frodo and co meeting the dwarves at Moria wouldn't be possible as their expedition won't take place till around 2989, I moved the timeline back because why not, more fun that way. Anyways, comments are always super appreciated, till next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'm not certain when the next chapter will come out as I do have multiple other fics I'm working on, but I do at least have it planned out. Comments are always super appreciated, till next time!


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